


Perchance to Live

by Jaydee_Faire



Category: Final Fantasy Tactics
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Broken Bones, Decay, Fluff, Graphic Description, Growing Old Together, Happily Ever After, M/M, Nightmare Imagery, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violence, spinach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:26:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27999714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaydee_Faire/pseuds/Jaydee_Faire
Summary: Wounded on the steps of Orbonne monastery, Wiegraf Folles is confronted by Belias.
Relationships: Zalbaag Beoulve/Wiegraf Folles
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Perchance to Live

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CorpseBrigadier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorpseBrigadier/gifts).



Wiegraf surged forward, plunging his sword into a man in red, piercing through the center of the Romandan coat of arms on his chest. When he tried to withdraw it, however, it stuck fast, the blade sinking in to the hilt and then beyond, swallowed up in creeping tendrils of blood and sinew that clung to his hand as he jerked it away. 

He stepped back, letting the man fall, and flinched as a bright flash of light exploded overhead: a bolt of lighting struck the spire at the top of Orbonne monastery, illuminating the rain-slick walls and the trail of blood he'd left in his wake. He turned and tried to run, losing one boot to the sucking mire. He stumbled and went to his knees; the edge of his tabard caught against the cracked white stone and then it was being pulled under as well. 

He tore the garment over his head, scrambling back to his feet and struggling to maintain his balance as the ground he stood upon became swamped, the rain turning to a torrent that splattered burning hot against his skin, dripping thickly from the tips of his fingers. He reached out towards Isilud's retreating back, trying to call to him, but the rain poured into his open mouth and he gagged on the taste of copper and salt. 

_"I am here,"_ something said behind him. 

"No," Wiegraf choked.

 _"I am here,"_ it said again, closer. _"Open yourself to me."_

 _"No!"_ Wiegraf hunched down, eyes shut tight, hands over his ears. "Stay away from me--"

 _"Is this how you will end it, with so much left undone?"_ He could smell it now, musk and shit and decay, the stink of a sick animal already rotting on the inside. _"Is this how you will honor her name? The power to venge her is within your grasp, you have but to take it. Open yourself to me."_

"I won't," Wiegraf said through gritted teeth. "I won't do it again, I won't let you in, I know what you are!"

It had come to stand before him, grasping him by the front of his shirt and dragging him upright. He stared in horror at its hollow eyes, desiccated flesh and wisps of wool still clinging to the bleached skull, the thick forward thrust of horns bracketing Wiegraf's face as it pressed closer. _"You were mine,"_ it said, _"from the moment you lifted your blade in the name of anger instead of justice. You cannot refuse me now."_

"Please," Wiegraf sobbed.

 _"I was always within you,"_ it said, thrusting clawed fingers into Wiegraf's chest. _"And live within you still. Here. Let me show you."_

With a great cracking, it tore open his chest, his ribs splintering as they were thrust apart. It reached inside of him, drawing out his still-pounding heart, ridges and pustules of black ooze crawling over it like a cancer. He cried out in wordless terror, wrenching himself free and throwing a wild punch. 

His fist connected with something solid, pain lancing through his hand and up his arm. Someone grunted, falling back; Wiegraf yelled again, kicking free of the mire beneath him and crawling until his hand abruptly thrust into open air and he fell forward, sprawling across some hard surface.

"My lord!" a voice, high and frightened. "I heard shouting--"

"Leave him!" The bark of a man familiar with giving orders. "Leave him, let him come out of it on his own."

"My lord, you--"

"I'm fine." More softly, "Wiegraf. Wiegraf, it's all right. You are home, you are safe."

Wiegraf gasped in a breath, too hard. He doubled over, coughing and trying not to retch. Slowly, the sucking mire resolved itself into a welter of blankets tangled around his legs, the soggy, unsteady ground becoming the mattress he'd just rolled off of. He took another breath, exhaling shakily, and swallowed back bile. 

"Wiegraf?" 

"I'm-- alright." Wiegraf pulled his feet free of the blankets, groaning as he stiffly righted himself. Zalbaag was standing at the foot of the bed, watching him with one hand pressed against his swelling jaw. "Oh, gods," Wiegraf said. "Did I--?"

"I had leaned over to try to shake you awake," Zalbaag said, grinning ruefully and then wincing. "I had just woken myself; I wasn't thinking clearly, or I wouldn't have done something so foolish."

"I'm sorry." Wiegraf took an unsteady step forward, reaching out to steady himself on the nightstand. He lifted his gaze to the figure still standing in the doorway, holding a lantern in one hand and an iron fire poker in the other. "Selphina, is that you?"

"Yes, my lord." The young girl bobbed a curtsey. 

"Were you going to hit me with a poker?"

"N-no, my lord," Selphina said, reddening. "I-- heard shouting, and I came as soon as I could, and I thought perhaps I shouldn't go unarmed..."

"Clever girl," Wiegraf chuckled. "We ought to pay you more. What time is it?"

"Nearly dawn, ser. I was just about to go and wake Templeton."

Zalbaag stepped around the mess of blankets to lay a hand on Wiegraf's arm. "Come back to bed," he said. "You need your rest."

"Don't treat me like I've one foot in the grave," Wiegraf grumbled. "Your father was still butchering Ordallians when he was a score of years older than I am now."

"My father left the war behind him while he slept," Zalbaag reminded him gently. "He did not suffer from nightmares as you do."

"Aye, and I'm not keen to return to where they can find me," Wiegraf said darkly. "I think I'll go and check the fields instead. The cool air will clear my head a bit."

"I'll go with you." Zalbaag turned. "Selphina, both of our coats, please, and something warm to drink if Cook's got the stove going already."

"And your cane, ser?"

Zalbaag rolled his eyes. "Yes, I suppose. Blasted thing."

It took time-- setting the bed to rights and dressing in the dark, pulling on a shirt with Zalbaag's patient assistance, as it had been years since Wiegraf had been able to lift both arms above his head. The Eastern horizon had blushed pink and then orange and was now aglow with the first rays of real sunlight as Wiegraf and Zalbaag stepped out into the chill dawn air. Templeton, the house boy, sketched a bow as he hurried by with a pail of feed for the chickens. Boco, gray-feathered and rheumy-eyed, lifted his head as they followed the path past his pasture and gave a short _kweh_ of greeting, to which Wiegraf replied, "At ease, Captain."

They reached the edge of the fields, row upon row of dark green leaves unfurling as the first warmth of the day touched them. Wiegraf paused, pretending to be taking in the sight as he waited for Zalbaag to catch his breath. 

"Wiegraf?" Zalbaag asked after a time.

"Mm."

"Why spinach?"

Wiegraf slipped an arm around Zalbaag's waist. "Because I hate spinach," he said, "and I thought that if I turned out to be a terrible farmer and my crop withered in the field, it would be all right if it were just spinach."

Zalbaag huffed softly, breath fogging the air. As the sun fought free of the horizon and began its slow climb into the sky, he said, "I don't hate you."

"I don't hate you too," Wiegraf replied.

**Author's Note:**

> As with most of my work, this piece was inspired by a throwaway joke by CorpseBrigadier on twitter. Here you go: The Spinach Farm Fic.
> 
> jaydeefaire.carrd.co


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